You sound like an old soul
A cloud of smoke blocks your words
Rumbling your voice like thunder
Words of vague disappointment
And barley remembered
Anger
Of your young years filter though your cigarette
Pressed between your lips like a
Respirator
You let it burn down to the filter
(You’re already halfway there)
And this one’s burning fast
Orange flickering under the ashes
Dragging low and long
On another coffin nail

I wrote this after my teacher inspired me; she's a sweet lady, and I will miss her muchly.

Update: Just for reference, this is not an anti-smoking poem. I am NOT anti-smoking. The whole anti-smoking thing is not only an infrigment of anyone's choices, the government overtaxes cigarettes because they don't like it when it's none of their goddamn business. They have gone after smoking much the same way they went after drinking with the 18th amendment to the Constitution. It's stupid; people know what smoking does to them, and people knew in the 20s when they started calling them coffin nails. It's their choice, just as people have a choice whether or not they eat themselves fat, whether or not they throw up after every meal, whether or not they drink themselves stupid, whether or not they take care of themselves or not.

::mina::